Budapesti
by BonGarland
Summary: After the events in D.C., Natasha's got to make a choice: keeping spinning the lies that form others' webs, or create her own? Sort of established Clintasha, can be seen as friendship.


**Hi guys, I have a lot of marvel feels leaking from my pores lately, and it's mostly the winter soldier's fault. So look for many more pieces to come, starting with the commencement of a post-TWS series, and an update on Lithasblot...**

**This is just something to address Clintasha, post-TWS, I dunno.**

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She eyed the distant banks of the Danube with a cold, calculating gaze, the view of the bright blue water doing absolutely nothing for her. Her eyes roamed east, then back west again, now tracing the ornate gothic features of several nearby rooftops. There was a purpose in each economic movement, two birds killed with every stone, as Natasha Romanoff awaited the killer headed her way.

Budapest was like an old friend, welcoming her into comforting, stony arms that ushered her into dark alleyways, cutting across cobblestone streets, something in every building's architecture an homage to days gone by. And yet, the taint of modernization was everywhere; a trenchcoat-cloaked figure offering her a thickly-accented "good time" in the shadows of the Matthias church, the yellow police tape symbolizing a crime scene draped across the entrance of a quaint café nestled on the corner of a usually quiet street.

Things, they were changing, and no matter how many bad guys she clobbered into compliance, no matter how many deadly political plots she foiled, no matter how many alien federations she closed an intergalactic door on, there was always another shadow ready to fall across the world instead.

And the Widow was tired, so very, very tired, no matter how her stamina and physical strength seemed to belie it.

A door slammed down on the first floor of the crumbling apartment complex, the pounding of ascending footsteps accompanying the distinctly non-furtive approach of the assassin. Natasha's eyes spared the door one disinterested glance before returning to the skyline, allowing her a chance to drink in the antique feel of the city for a moment.

Arms folded across her chest, sleeves of black leather replaced by a denim option to provide a better disguise, she leaned a hip against the sad excuse for a sofa in the once-living room, focusing on the bay windows. That was exactly why she was renting out this pathetic substitute for a hotel room, the cramped quarters provided a killer view; she could be in a suite in the Corinthia, if the airy suites wouldn't paint a bullseye on her back. No, what she needed was cloaking, amply provided by the multiple broken light bulbs throughout the apartment, and an easy escape route, supplied via a rickety fire escape that looked loath to support her weight, the perfect deception.

A Glock 26 holstered at her side, tasering cuffs on her wrists should she have need of them, and a knife strapped to one shin, she still felt bare, fingers tapping incessantly against each arm as she awaited her mark. One could never be too ready for-

"Dermo!" She hissed, levering one hand against the couch to flip herself over it as an arrow embedded itself in the wall next to where her head had been. "Don't _do _that."

"When the swearing's in Russian, I know I've got you good," came Clint Barton's calm tones from the doorway, the arrows rattling in his quiver as he slung the bow, its job finished, back over his shoulder. He was dressed a little less street-clothesy than she was, but then, it was Budapest, and strangely-dressed men were never of any consequence unless they were holding a knife to your throat and demanding all your cash. The bow and quiver he carried had streamlined appearances, solid black so they looked a little more like surveying equipment when stowed on his back. A black cargo jacket over a gray t-shirt and black jeans completed the look as he moved closer, rubbing his hands together dramatically. "Brr, forget to pay the heating bill this month, Nat? I mean c'mon, we've got access to ninety percent of the world's funds, barring some kid's piggy-bank cash in the Amazonian rainforest or something…"

"You know comfort is a foreign concept to guys like us," came the slow drawl in reply, Natasha having regained her feet, slowly pacing across the room and back.

"Yeah, but it doesn't mean I don't get any when I'm off assignment," Barton whined good-naturedly, rubbing the back of his neck and plopping himself down on the ancient couch, which groaned even louder than him at the barrage of weight on its cushions. "Just like old times, huh," he muttered, propping his feet up on the spindly coffee table, a leg of which promptly snapped as he did so. Natasha couldn't catch what he muttered darkly after that, but a hint of a smile crept its way up one side of her plush lips.

"So why am I here, Nat, and not in Hawaii, sipping a margarita from a coconut shell?" Clint finally asked, boots having settled for tapping absently against the worn carpeting. "I got the feeling we SHIELDers were all abruptly on permanent vacation."

"Minus the pay," Natasha returned, finally swinging around to recline next to him.

"And don't I know it," he murmured with a grimace, tapping against his quiver. "My guy promised me an upgrade on my homing beacon barbs, but with an upgrade on the price, too. Bet all the accountants took the offshore accounts and ran."

The half-smile became whole; Clint's griping about the latest weaponry and advances in archery equipment were always so comforting and down-to-earth. Absentmindedly, a word not usually associated with the Black Widow, her hand moved to her neckline, fingers threading along the delicate silver chain that suspended an arrow across her collarbone. Clint's eyes tracked the movement, a knowing smile preceding a wiggling of his eyebrows. "Nice trinket."

"You would know," she returned, teeth sinking into her bottom lip in a rare show of uncertainty, her eyes resting on the ripped floral print of the apartment's wallpaper. "I wanted to ask you something."

Clint spread his arms wide, then folded his hands in his lap, the picture of attentiveness.

"Have you considered going off the grid? Completely?" Nat ventured lowly, shooting him a sidelong glance as she did so.

Clint seemed to appraise the question thoroughly, sucking in his bottom lip and furrowing his brows as he considered. "You mean just exiting stage left?"

"Yeah."

"If that show on Capitol Hill wasn't worthy of a Hollywood diva, I dunno what is," Clint declared with a grin, but Nat's expression was as grim as it ever could be. "I mean, yeah, I think we all have. Rogers especially; guy looks like he could do with a farm in backwoods Nebraska, having the daily breakfast special at a diner day in and day out." He met her eyes, his expression growing somber as well. "I think we all have," he repeated.

"What about farming in Romania?" Nat suggested with a twitch of her lips. "I did that once, for a few months, gathering intel on a corrupt officer in Maramures…"

"I could just see you milking a cow." Clint's tone was light, but his eyes were alight with something else as his eyes skimmed her denim-clad form, coiled gracefully on the couch beside him. "But somehow, I don't think I'd be content with that. I don't think you'd be, either."

"And why not?" She challenged, setting her jaw and arching a brow at him.

"Because as much as we stick to the shadows, you and me, we end up in the limelight somehow, saving the world or defending humanity's integrity, or however Steve puts it," Clint summarized neatly, leaning back and folding his arms across his chest. "We're just not the sort meant for a quiet life. We're the ones who do what needs doing, no questions asked."

"I guess we should have asked a few," Nat muttered, running a hand through her hair distractedly. "Cut off one head, etcetera…"

"We'll cut 'em all off, Nat, sooner or later," Clint soothed, nudging at her boot with his own. She nodded, apparently coming to a decision and rising to her feet. Pulling out her phone, she nodded at him, proffering the device after pulling up a message for him to read. "Then what are we waiting for?"

It wasn't until they were on the street, tracking coordinates on a GPS app and checking their weapons, that Clint spoke again. "Ya know, it's just somehow more satisfying, hitting a villainous, moving target who's cursing your mother in Russian or Italian or some alien bullshit jargon, rather than the potatoes you've just uprooted for dinner, anyways."

Natasha's laugh wasn't audible, but he could see it in her eyes, glinting with reflections of Budapest's gas lamps as the evening darkened.

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**thanks for reading. ~Bon**


End file.
